Xanthopsia

It wasn’t absinthe or digitalisin the Yellow House the two of them sharedthat led him to layer the chrome coronasor yellow the sheets in the bedroom in Arlesor tinge the towel negligently hungon the hook by the door, or yellow the window,be it distant view or curtain, yolk-lickthe paintings on the wall by the monkish bed.No, it wasn’t sunstroke or the bright lightof southern France that yellowed the café terraceat the Place du Forum, a pigmentintensified by the little white tables, the white starsin a blue sky, the deep-saffron floor, it wasn’tsome chemical or physical insult that stainedthe vase with twelve sunflowers a urinousyellow, the water in the vase yellow,also the table under the vase—sucha troubled life of yellow leading upto Vincent’s hurled wineglass arousingGauguin’s rapier to sever his best friend’s left ear,the story they made up that Vincent lopped itoff himself, wrapped it, ran down the roadto the nearby bordello, where his favorite whoreopened her present and fainted. He wouldhave bled to death if Gauguin hadn’t hauled himto hospital next morning. Even in “Self-Portraitwith Bandaged Ear,” his necessary color washes indespite greatcoat and pipe. Science has a word—xanthopsia—for when objects appearmore yellow than they really are, but who’sto say? As yellow as they are, they are.